


Of Oranges and Coffee

by Mirror_ball



Category: TharnType the Series (TV), เกลียดนักมาเป็นที่รักกันซะดีๆ | TharnType: The Series (TV), เกลียดนักมาเป็นที่รักกันซะดีๆ | TharnType: The Series (TV) RPF
Genre: Coffee Shops, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, barista!gulf, coffee shop AU, photographer!mew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:08:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24936574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirror_ball/pseuds/Mirror_ball
Summary: What happens when a coffee fanatic meets a very handsome, yet very ignorant, caffeine sceptic?***Wow, this one's long overdue. Sherpa Live inspired coffee shop AU featuring a very sexually frustrated barista!gulf and a sugar-obsessed photographer!mew with a dazzling smile.
Relationships: Mew Suppasit Jongcheveevat/Gulf Kanawut Traipipattanapong
Comments: 17
Kudos: 294





	Of Oranges and Coffee

A chime of the bells hung above the door announces a new visitor. Over the last few months, Gulf has grown attached to the delicate, ethereal sound heralding a new adventure. That's what meeting new visitors is to Gulf—an adventure, rather than a business exchange. Similarly, the people who end up seated in his coffee shop are not just customers to him; they're wanderers, each in possession of a unique story, lost souls seeking reassurance in his carefully brewed coffee, black as night itself. They're his kindred spirits, taking the time out of their busy schedules to appreciate the intoxicating smell of coffee beans and the addicting taste of bitterness that Gulf's so eager to deliver. They're coffee worshipers, just like him. Wow, he sounds like a complete freak.

It wasn't always like that. In fact, Gulf hadn't drunk a drop of coffee right until he got his bachelor’s degree. It was then that he generously decided to take on a part-time job so he could maybe finally stop sponging off his parents and fend for himself for a change, while attempting to complete the master's program. It just so happened that a small coffee shop around the corner from his university was hiring, and he wasn’t picky. The owners clearly weren’t picky either. And the rest is history.

Four years later, and he has a little coffee shop of his own, squeezed into a tiny space between a pad Thai place and a Korean barbecue restaurant. It's located in a secluded part of Bangkok, far from main tourist attractions—thank God for that—and all the hustle and bustle of the city, so it usually doesn't get too crowded on the daily. The visitors are mostly locals who work nearby, always in a rush to get their daily dose of caffeine into their systems while on their lunch breaks. Every once in a while, Gulf greets weary travellers who get lost in the heat of early afternoons and somehow manage to end up off the beaten track. Other times, he gets to exchange a few words with some of the regulars, often joining them at the table for a quick sip of his own coffee while his employees take care of other customers.

But not today. Today he's alone behind the counter again, Run on his annual leave and Mild lounging at home with a cold. It's been three days of this setup already, and Gulf starts to feel exhaustion gradually seeping into his muscles. The twelve-hour shifts had to take their toll on him at some point.

He doesn't look up from the register until a soft cough resonates in the otherwise silent space. He's pulled out of his thoughts only to come face to face with an owner of what is arguably the prettiest smile he's seen in his life.

"I'm sorry, didn't see you enter. How may I help you…," Gulf hesitates, "Sir?"

"Green tea frappuccino to go, please." Oh. So the owner of a pretty smile is simultaneously an owner of a low, smooth voice. Nice. Gulf now finds himself _staring_ into a pair of piercing eyes in front of him. Also pretty.

"Certainly. It'll be a second."

But will it, really? He's distracted, he might need more time than that. Actually, scratch that—he might need a fucking lifetime because now the man's smile grows even wider, hands coming together in front of his chest as he ducks his head just so. "Thanks."

That voice again. What the hell. Trying to compose himself, Gulf spins around and goes about gathering the necessary ingredients. He's got this. He's seen his share of handsome men in his life, there's no reason why he should be giddy like this now. And yet, there he is.

Pouring milk into the blender, he needs to fight the urge to look over his shoulder. He scoffs at himself upon the realization; it's not like he's suddenly smitten or something.

Shaking his head to chase away all the ridiculous thoughts, he proceeds to toss exactly five ice cubes into the milk, a secret to the perfect texture of the drink he's determined to take to his grave. The secret, not the drink. Not that no one ever had, or ever will, come up with the same formula, but he’s going to give credit where the credit’s due—and his matcha frappuccino’s off the charts, alright?

He adds one teaspoon of matcha green tea powder, then pours a tablespoon worth of vanilla-flavoured syrup into the mix for that distinctive hint of sweetness.

There. Now he can finally press the start button on the blender, the tightness in his shoulders easing off slightly as he sets the device to the highest speed. The whirring sound that ensues drowns out the way-too-loud pounding of his heart (really, though?) and he welcomes the noise that usually drives him up the wall, with a sigh of relief. Palms pressing flat against the countertop, he rests his body weight on his hands, waiting for the ingredients to fully mix. Once the consistency seems just about right, he reaches out to turn off the blender and almost winces at the silence that envelopes him right after. Pouring the green mixture into a disposable coffee cup, he tops it off with whipped cream and seals the drink with a transparent plastic lid. One more deep breath for mental support and he's turning around to get his visitor his order.

"Your matcha frappe," Gulf offers a smile of his own, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead in a somewhat subconscious attempt to be cute. Their eyes meet for a split second and, ridiculous as it is, Gulf finds himself boiling despite the air conditioner blowing ice-cold air straight into his face.

"Thanks," the visitor says again, grabbing the drink from where Gulf set it down on the counter, and God, he could easily imagine those long, slender fingers wrapped around other things than a cup of frappuccino.

Holding back a smirk that threatens to tug at the corner of his mouth in the middle of his rather inappropriate musings, he mumbles, "That would be one hundred fifty baht." He briefly regrets not trying to lure the man back with a discount, but oh well, too late for that. Also, why would he want him back here, anyway?

Gulf's eyes follow each of the man's moves as he leans that much closer, reaching out to pay with his card when prompted. He's close now, close enough for Gulf to catch a whiff of his cologne, and if he could get any more bothered than he already is, now would be the time. And then he's leaving, far too unaffected, Gulf judges, and far too soon for his liking. And yet, before the glass door clicks shut behind him, he turns slightly, looking over his shoulder with that stupid, dazzling smile. "See you around."

Gulf huffs. Yeah, as if.

***

Eyeing the long-ass line of customers, Gulf stretches his neck side-to-side, lets out a groan of pain, then repeats the action out of sheer obstinacy. He hopes it'll ease off the tension in his shoulders, but if anything, it only makes him more aware of the soreness in his muscles. It's with a considerable amount of horror that he realizes he's only halfway through his shift. Mild owes him a meal a day, _every_ day until the end of time, for catching that cold, he decides.

It's been so boring lately. Exhausting, but boring. He doesn't particularly want to admit it, but without Run's K-pop guessing games and Mild's general antics, the place feels empty, even when swarming with people, much like today. Handing over a flat white to yet another customer, he doesn't even try to muster a smile. It's whatever. He might not be the best at customer service when he's running on three hours of sleep, but his coffee still tastes heavenly, so at least there's that.

"Hi," says the customer who’s next in line, and Gulf wonders why it is so hard for people to wait until he's done with putting away the money before they start making an order. It's always like that. Always.

"Welcome, what can I get you today?" He recites flatly, still busy dropping the coins into the respective compartments of the cash drawer.

"A smile would be nice, for starters."

It's uttered in a tone he can't quite read, something between a reprimand and a repressed chuckle. The tone may be foreign, but the voice seems awfully familiar. Gulf's head jerks up, and sure enough, it's the pretty face from three days ago, the one with a pretty smile and pretty eyes. Well, _shit_.

"Sorry, busy day." His lips do curve into a smile nonetheless, and he's quite surprised to discover the action was half-voluntary at best.

“I bet.” The handsome stranger doesn’t stifle a chuckle this time, and all Gulf can do is stare at how his eyes crinkle at the corners to complete that awfully lovely expression on his face. Gulf is straight-up disgusted with himself for being so affected. “Looks like business is good.”

“I’m not complaining,” he lies, because God knows how much whining he’s been doing over the past few days, bored out of his mind and dog-tired. Mild must be done with him already, seeing how he hasn’t replied to his last five overdramatic texts, and how he’s never answering his calls these days. Either that, or he’s dead. Gulf decides to pocket away this thought for further consideration. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll take an iced tea, please.”

Huh. Is twice a pattern yet? There may well be no third time for Gulf to make sure, so he musters the courage to ask, like it matters at all, “Not a coffee person, are you?”

It's exactly two seconds later that it registers—he’s being very fucking obvious and it’s rather humiliating. He wants to roll his eyes at himself so bad he needs to squeeze them shut for a moment instead, just to be on the safe side. Alright, fine, he remembers him, whatever. It’s not a big deal and he’ll stand by it.

“I’m not indeed,” the man in front of him all but beams, and Gulf decides, not without some satisfaction, that him being obvious may have been well worth it after all. “I’m surprised you remembered.”

“I have a good memory for faces,” Gulf shrugs nonchalantly, and wow, lying comes easy to him today, doesn’t it?

“Still, must be hard with all the people coming in and out,” the man has the audacity to cock an eyebrow at him, and Gulf would be concerned, because he’s sure he’s just been caught, if he wasn’t busy marveling at the spark in the man’s eye and the subtle wave in his meticulously-styled hair. Not to mention that annoying upward curve of his lips.

“It’s a habit. I like studying people.” At least that much is true. Him being a rather silent, tight-lipped person doesn’t make him entirely antisocial, or any less observant. If it did, it wouldn’t bode very well for his career in customer service. And yet, his business is flourishing. “Anyway, I’d better start on your order, the line’s getting crazy long.”

“Sure,” the man nods while his eyes remain trained on Gulf, and it takes every last bit of control he has not to shudder under the man’s intense gaze. It’s embarrassing how his heartbeat has accelerated since their gazes met and recognized each other just two minutes ago, tops, and yet Gulf doesn’t seem to mind at all. If anything, it feels refreshing to him, the way his palms begin to sweat and his breaths get quick and shallow. It’s because it’s been so long since anything of the sort last happened to him—he reasons—long enough for him to crave it again. And so what that he only saw this man once before? Clearly, that doesn’t stop his brain from conjuring up a plethora of rather entertaining scenarios featuring both of them, all connected by a common theme of, well, certain homoerotic behaviors.

He makes short work of the order, iced tea not being the most challenging drink to prepare, and he’s handing it over to the handsome stranger in no time, earning himself yet another smile.

“Thanks.” The handsome visitor raises his hand slightly, credit card between his fingers. These long, slender, vein-covered fingers that Gulf could picture—

“It’s on the house,” he blurts out before he can think better of it, and instantly feels a burning sensation travel up the back of his neck to settle in his cheeks. Horrified, he rushes to add, “Congratulations, you’re the lucky one hundredth customer.” 

“Am I, now?” the man in front of him raises both eyebrows in mock disbelief, mischievous smirk playing on his lips. It’s so evident he’s not buying this shit that Gulf just wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “And you’ve been counting?”

“Always.” Gulf would risk a wink to complete his answer, but he’s definitely too guarded for that, so he resorts to clearing his throat instead. “Too bad the hundredth customer’s prize is wasted on a coffee hater.”

Something shifts in the man’s features at that, lips coming together to form a thin line. Gulf wants to slap himself across the face. He really doesn’t know where to stop, does he?

“Wow, that’s harsh,” the man sounds somewhat offended, but then his lips stretch into a grin, and to Gulf, it’s proof enough that he’s willing to play along. “Well, what can you do—I just don’t like it.”

“That’s because you haven’t had mine.” He’s feeling confident now. Confident, and sassy, and flirtatious. 

“Is that an offer?”

“More like a challenge.”

“I like a challenge,” the man declares, tilting his head back slightly in a sudden display of cockiness, and _God_ , Gulf doesn’t doubt it one bit. The electrifying look the man’s giving him sends a shiver up his spine and all blood rushing down to his groin, and Gulf vaguely thinks this is where it ends for him, this is where he dies from sexual frustration. It’s been too damn long since he last got laid, and boy, does it show.

Before he can bring himself to stutter out a reply, the man snatches his drink off the counter, leaving Gulf with a gaping mouth and a promise of _I’ll see you_ tossed over his shoulder on his way out.

***

Gulf’s facing a crisis. It’s been a week now and Mild hasn’t recovered yet. Which reminds Gulf that he should probably check on him, seeing how he’s still not picking up the phone and all. Tomorrow—he decides—tomorrow he’ll do that.

Run, on the other hand, has still an entire week of vacation left to waste on queuing for K-pop idol auditions somewhere in Seoul. Gulf can’t for the life of him remember how he ended up accepting his request for such a long leave, but he knows for sure Run will be paying the price when he’s back. _If_ he’s back. Not that he can get accepted into a K-pop training program at his age, Gulf concludes with a dismissive scoff.

He sighs. He has enough on his plate even with his employees around—without them, he’s practically a zombie. Which is why he finds himself literally dragging his feet across the sidewalk on his way to his coffee shop, dizzy from sleep deprivation and general exhaustion. It’s an early, scorching-hot morning, and he’s too tired and too engrossed in his thoughts to realize he went past his own workplace. When it does occur to him, he’s already two blocks away. He barely stops himself from facepalming.

With a groan, he spins on his heel and starts walking in the opposite direction, only to jolt to a halt a mere few steps later, a new sign hung above the place that used to be his favorite restaurant catching his eye. _Mew Suppasit Studio_ , black caption reads against the white background. So the place that sold the best stir fried basil with crispy pork really doesn’t exist anymore, huh?

It’s such a shame. Even more so considering that he didn’t get to enjoy his favorite dish one last time before the restaurant closed. And for what? To make space for some hipster Suppa-something studio? What is this place now, anyway? 

Curious, Gulf takes a few steps toward the huge window that stretches almost all the way down to the ground. Squinting furiously, as if that could help him see any better, he tries to peek inside through the glass, the sunbeams reflecting off the window doing nothing to help him identify the details of the interior. Eventually, he manages to make out a silhouette of a rather well-built man against a backdrop of immaculately white walls. He’s on one knee, muscles flexing deliciously under the exposed skin of his biceps as he alters between lifting and lowering his arms, a camera sitting snuggly in his big, veiny hands. Hands which, by the way, look a tad bit familiar. Just like the delicate wave in the man’s bangs that’s swept to the side, and his strong profile with the sharp jawline, and—

It’s then that the photographer tilts his head to his left, enough for Gulf to catch a glimpse of his face, but thankfully not enough to notice Gulf staring at him creepily through the window. For a moment, everything around Gulf falls silent. He can hear absolutely nothing save for the furious thumping of his own heart, and, quite frankly, it scares the shit out of him. There’s no reason why he should be getting this excited over the sight of this coffee-hating borderline stranger, but something about watching him in this setting—serious, professional, focused—makes his blood boil in his veins. It doesn’t help that the man is wearing a sleeveless top, arm muscles on full display as he bends down and stretches back up, taking shot after shot. Gulf watches those muscles tighten and relax alternately, and he can’t help but wonder what they would feel like beneath his fingers if he was allowed to run his hands up those arms. 

When he finally drags himself out of his perilously lascivious thoughts, it’s to a sight of a grin directed right at him and a hand waving in a rather alluring manner. Gulf’s not one to get flustered easily, but suddenly he feels like all air has been knocked out of him, and he’s _this_ close to going into panic mode. He allows himself to gape for a couple of seconds, eyes wide as saucers and shallow breathes escaping him in short, frantic puffs of air, before he spins around and scurries away, hoping to God he will never have to greet that Suppa-something guy in his café again.

***

Hope for the best, prepare for the worst, right? Yeah, not in Gulf’s case. Because while he has sure done his share of hoping over the past week, the preparation part has never really piqued his interest. So, when a gentle pat on his shoulder one rainy evening causes his head to snap around, he’s definitely not mentally ready to face the ridiculously handsome caffeine sceptic again, especially after making an absolute idiot out of himself last time he saw him.

It’s like a scene taken out of a shitty romantic movie, wherein a clumsy teenage girl becomes a complete mess the moment her love interest is in the vicinity, and Gulf’s obviously playing that girl’s part. Not that the (admittedly dashing) man in front of him is his love interest. Still, he manages to drop his keys to the ground even before he gets to turn the biggest one in the lock on the coffee shop door.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you like that,” the man sends Gulf an apologetic smile that the latter barely catches before squatting to pick up the keys. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Gulf sees the man’s wet. Not soaking-wet, because the heavy downpour has long morphed into a drizzle, but wet enough for his white shirt to be clinging to his body in all the right places, and it’s distracting enough for Gulf to briefly forget that he’s supposed to be embarrassed about last time. Even so, he turns to the door again, shoving the key back into the lock with much more force than absolutely necessary. “We’re closed.”

“Not yet,” the man points out. “The door’s not locked, is it?”

“Well, it is now,” Gulf twists his wrist twice, then slips the keys into the front pocket of his black jeans. “I’m sorry, my shift’s over.”

“I really need a drink, though, and all other places around here are closed.”

“There’s literally a pub just across the street.”

The man does a double take, eventually letting out a defeated sigh. “Fine. I was hoping to take you up on your offer.”

“You mean, accept the challenge,” Gulf corrects him. 

“Why do I feel like it’s already started?” the man all but scoffs. “But yes. I’m ready to give your coffee a go.”

Gulf briefly wonders why on earth he couldn’t choose to be ready before the closing time, but decides to park that question for now. He has far more pressing issues at hand, an intolerably erratic heartbeat being only one of them.

“You’re making it sound like I should be flattered,” he grumbles, but his hand’s already fumbling for the keys in his pocket. “But frankly, I’m doing you a favor here.”

“I appreciate it,” the man smiles that stupid, dashing smile of his, and he’s so beautiful Gulf considers jumping him right there and then. Wow, he’s really starved. 

Opening the door, he hesitates for a moment. Should he switch on the lights? Or should he wait, giving the handsome almost-stranger the chance to grab him by the hips and pull him flush against his chest, before sinking his teeth in his shoulder, his neck, nipping at his skin and running his tongue over the sore spots to relieve the pain, while simultaneously reaching down into his pants?

He shakes his head vigorously and curses at himself in his head. He really needs to get a grip of himself, or else he’ll be fucked. And not in a sexual way.

Reaching out, he switches on the lights, but only those immediately above the counter, so that the rest of the place remains shrouded in darkness. It’s going to create the right mood, he figures, while not giving people the wrong idea of the coffee shop still being open. Just to be on the safe side, though, he locks it up from inside the moment his companion crosses the threshold.

“I don’t want people to think we’re still open,” he says somewhat defensively, like he owes his guest an explanation. “I’m dead beat as is. Can’t risk having more customers today.”

“Wow, I’m starting to feel really guilty.”

“As you should be,” Gulf nods. “But like I said, my shift’s over, so you’re going to be making that coffee yourself.”

“But—”

“No buts. I’ll show you.” 

With that, he disappears out back only to reemerge a couple seconds later, a towel in his hand and two aprons hanging over his forearm. “Here, you’re wet.”

“Thanks,” the man catches the towel that’s tossed to him and proceeds to run it over his wet hair, flashing Gulf a grateful smile, and Gulf thinks that whoever this man is, he sure does like to flaunt his pretty teeth a lot. Not that he minds.

“And this,” Gulf hands his visitor a black barista apron. “You don’t want to get your shirt dirty.”

He watches, with some level of admiration he mistakes for regular curiosity, as the man throws the apron over his head and ties it swiftly behind his back, arm muscles stretching under a thin layer of white cotton. He lets himself briefly enjoy a mental picture of getting pinned to the wall by those very arms, before going into a nervous coughing fit. What is wrong with him, for God’s sake?

“You okay?” the man has the audacity to ask, as if he’s not the very reason why Gulf’s on edge and _pining_.

“Peachy,” Gulf lies. “Throat’s a bit dry.” 

Which, to be fair, isn’t a lie. He could definitely use the tall drink of water in front of him to quench his thirst right now. If only. Instead of entertaining the venturesome idea any further, he dons his own apron, biting into his lower lip as his suddenly slippery fingers struggle to tie the strings together. When he’s finally done, he’s surprised to see the other man standing an arm’s-length away from him, a small, rectangular piece of paper between his fingers.

“By the way, in case you’re wondering,” the man places what turns out to be his business card on the counter. “It’s my photography studio. The one you were checking out last week.”

Welcome back, embarrassment—long time no see. “I wasn’t checking it out. I just happened to see it on my way to work.”

“But of course,” the man chuckles, obviously unconvinced. “The thing is, you know my name now. It’s only fair that I learn yours.”

Picking up the card from the counter, Gulf brings it to his face. Mew, huh? He did wonder whether the name on the sign was his, but he didn’t want to assume. Now, he can’t help but notice how easily the name rolls off his tongue as he mumbles it under his breath. He could definitely get used to screaming it at the top of his lungs while getting filled up to the brim by the man’s— Nevermind. 

“It’s Gulf,” he clears his throat, and rushes to add, secretly hoping to score some points, “And I’m the owner of this place.”

***

Surprisingly enough, teaching the coffee hater how to brew his own coffee turns out to be the easy part. Convincing him that he should mix it with oranges is where it gets tricky. 

“I don’t see how this could ever work,” the man who’s not a nameless stranger anymore, _Mew_ , winces at Gulf’s suggestion. “Are you sure you’re trying to make me like coffee? It seems like you’re planning to do exactly the opposite.”

“For the hundredth time, it’s me who’s an expert here, alright? Have some trust.”

With a dramatic sigh (cute, cute, _cute_!), Mew gives up and proceeds to do as he’s told. Gulf can barely keep from laughing as he watches Mew struggle to cut slices of candied oranges into tiny pieces. He’d help him, but he’s determined to let him do it himself. He hopes this way he will enjoy the drink more when he gets to taste it later. And he’d better!

It’s painfully obvious that Mew generally doesn’t know his way around a kitchen whatsoever, and it’s oddly endearing, too. Gulf’s this close to cracking up when the man can’t decide how much exactly half a teaspoon of jam is, or how to cut an orange in half.

“Do I cut it horizontally?” he asks, visibly perplexed. “Or vertically?”

It’s entertaining. So much so that it eventually sends Gulf’s doubling over with laughter, eyes watering with tears. “You’re hilarious.”

“I’m _offended_ ,” Mew mumbles, but smiles nonetheless. “Do I squeeze them now?”

“Use the juicer,” Gulf says, voice still shaky from all the laughing, and before he can catch himself, he adds half-jokingly, “Put those muscles to use and show off your arm strength.”

The moment the words roll off his tongue, he freezes. Perfect. How much more obvious is he going to get today? 

Looking half-surprised and half-pleased, Mew snaps his head up to meet Gulf’s gaze with his own. “You bet I will.” Uttered in a low voice, the words sound partly like a promise, and partly like a warning, and Gulf can barely suppress a shiver. God, he could easily imagine Mew show off the strength of his muscles, not necessarily by juicing oranges. He swallows, picturing the pair of toned arms hurling him onto this very counter, and big, veiny hands pinning him down. Well, _shit_.

Gulf’s so busy conjuring up diverse scenarios of him getting sexually satisfied by his new acquaintance that he doesn’t realize the man’s done squeezing the juice out of the fruit. It’s only when a warm hand wraps around his arm to give him a gentle shake that he’s startled out of his reverie.

“Sorry, was thinking about… stuff,” Gulf says eloquently, letting go of his fantasies with much reluctance. “Now season the juice with a pinch of salt.”

The amount of terror on Mew’s face almost sends Gulf into another laughing fit. 

“Will I even be able to drink this?”

“Trust me, we’re going by the book.”

“Book of nonsense,” Mew grumbles, adding some salt nonetheless. 

“I heard that!” 

A shrug is all the response he gets. Smiling against his will, Gulf walks around the counter so that he can stand opposite Mew, elbows coming to rest against the countertop as he props his chin on his knuckles. “You’re really bad at this, you know?”

“That’s alright. I have my expert here to save the day.”

It’s a joke, but there’s something about Mew calling Gulf his that sets his insides ablaze. He wouldn’t mind the man claiming him as his in more ways than one, just to be clear. But for now, he figures, that much will have to do. 

“Put some ice into the glass with candied oranges and jam, and then pour orange juice over it,” Gulf says with an audible strain in his voice, hoping to God he doesn’t sound too affected. “Then pour coffee into the glass. Gently. It’s supposed to be a layered drink.”

Mew’s face is an epitome of confusion. “What? Did you just say _layered_? I think you’re overestimating my skills.”

“I’m really not. I know you suck at this,” Gulf chuckles. “But you’re capable of this much.”

If Mew’s offended, he doesn’t show it at all. In fact, Gulf’s words seem to spur him into action. With a focused look on his face, similar to the one he was sporting while taking pictures in his studio, he proceeds to follow Gulf’s instructions. He’s determined, Gulf’s got to give him that, and it suits him, that look. It’s sexy.

When he’s finally done, Mew couldn’t possibly seem more stunned. “Wow, it actually _is_ layered, huh?”

“Just because you made it so,” Gulf can’t hold back a smile, heart swelling up with something akin to pride. “Now quick, feast your eyes, because those layers are not here to stay.”

“I’m sorry… what?” Mew splutters, frantically pulling his phone out of the back pocket of his pants. “All this effort… and it’s for nothing?

“What do you mean, for nothing?” Gulf huffs, watching Mew snap a few quick pictures of the layered drink from all possible angles. Occupational habits die hard, he figures. “You’ve just made the first coffee drink in your life that you’re actually going to enjoy. I don’t see how that’s wasted effort.”

“But—” Mew trails off as a swizzle stick lands in the glass with a plop. He’s evidently devastated to see the layers fade away as the swirling ensues, and Gulf decides it’s a sight to behold.

“Et voila,” Gulf beams eventually, removing the swizzle stick when he’s done. “Ready to have your mind blown?”

“Like it hasn’t already happened,” Mew clears his throat, briefly locking his eyes with Gulf, and that’s exactly when the latter has a minor heart malfunction, because really, how is he supposed to read a remark like that? 

Jokes aside, he’s determined not to get his hopes up just yet, or maybe ever. Instead, he focuses all his attention on fighting that burning sensation in the pit of his stomach, praying to every deity there is that it doesn’t manifest itself as a blush on his neck and all over his face, ears included as a bonus. He’d rather not resort to those lame good blood circulation excuses this time around, thank you very much.

It doesn’t help that when he hands Mew the drink, the man’s palm wraps around his briefly, big, and soft, and maybe a little sticky from the orange juice, and the smile that accompanies this action makes it quite obvious that it wasn’t purely accidental. Gulf sucks in a shaky breath and holds it, watching Mew bring the glass to his lips and take a sip.

“Huh,” Mew tilts his head to the side, raising his brows in bewilderment. “This is actually really good. Sweet. Almost doesn’t taste like coffee.”

“See?” Gulf shrugs, genuinely relieved. Phew, that was quite a ride, and he’s ready to drop. “Okay, challenge completed. I’d gladly stay and chat but guess what, it’s my thirteenth hour behind the counter, so it’s high time I clocked out.”

“Technically speaking, you’re not behind the counter.”

“Technically speaking, you shouldn’t be, either,” Gulf retaliates, reaching around to untie his apron. “Teaching a stranger how to make orange coffee isn’t usually on my agenda.”

“Hey, I’m hardly a stranger anymore, alright?”

“Well, you might not be a nameless customer, but—oh, for God’s sake, a _knot_ , really?” Gulf all but snarls, tugging at the strings that just won’t let go. “Sorry, apron problems, just ignore.”

“You know way too many things about me to consider me a stranger,” Mew walks around the counter in a leisurely manner, getting behind Gulf in a few languid strides. “You know I have a sweet tooth, as I tend to go for sugar-loaded beverages. You know I don’t like coffee, although that’s subject to change now, I guess.” A soft chuckle that erupts from him sends a puff of warm air over the nape of Gulf’s neck, and just like that, Gulf’s knees buckle under his own weight. He wants to shake it off, that unanticipated feeling of excitement, but instead he lets out a quivering breath at how Mew’s fingertips flutter against his shirt-clad lower back while he starts to untie the apron for him.

“You know my profession, too, thanks to spying on me in front of my studio the other day.”

“I wasn’t—”

“And you know I have a sweet spot for sassy baristas with endearingly small ears and chestnut-shaped lips.”

“That last bit is news to me.”

“Is it?” Mew’s voice comes out all raspy when he speaks, words accentuated by another yank at the ties. “Well, then I can assure you that I do. In fact, I’m rather interested in one at the moment. And unless I’ve misread the signs completely, I think he might be interested in me, too.”

Cocky. He likes that. But he hates how Mew’s forwardness renders him utterly speechless, like he’s a skittish teen whose mind goes completely blank upon running into his long-time crush. And he’s never been skittish in his life. 

It’s exactly then that he feels the knot at the back come undone, apron strings falling to his sides tellingly. He’s about to step aside, a _thank you_ already hovering on his lips, when Mew’s hands—much to Gulf’s trepidation and also delight—move from the center of his lower back to the sides, where they eventually settle on his hips, taking him captive. Which, by the way, is a very welcome turn of events indeed.

He feels the warmth of Mew’s body radiating against his own, the small distance between them doing absolutely nothing to help him breathe properly. And as if that’s not bad enough, Mew decides to take this opportunity to crane his neck daringly, bringing his lips that much closer to the side of Gulf’s face. They’re practically brushing over the taunt line of his jaw when he murmurs, “God, I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first time I laid my eyes on you.” His breath is hot against Gulf’s skin, matching the heat beneath his palms were they’re still pressing over Gulf’s hipbones, and sending his senses into overdrive. “Will you let me?”

“I won’t stop you.”

It’s then that Gulf’s chin lands in a gentle grip, and there’s a pull, light enough for him to resist if he were to change his mind, but strong enough to convey Mew’s intention. Gulf doesn’t falter.

The first kiss lands on the corner of his mouth. It’s a light, probing, barely-there touch of lips, and yet it holds enough power to send Gulf’s head spinning. He’s suddenly thankful for the now single-handed grip on his hip and the solid chest against his back. If not for that—he muses—there’s a good chance that he’d be sliding to the floor any second now. There’s not too much time for considerations of this sort, though, as Mew’s hand moves from his chin to his cheek, holding his face in place, pressing him into the full-on kiss that ensues.

Mew’s lips are soft, softer than he imagined them to be. There’s a hint of orange when they properly close around Gulf’s upper lip for the first time, and a tinge of bitterness, too. They feel perfect.

It barely registers with Gulf that Mew’s hand travels farther to bury itself in his hair, but he very nearly mewls at the sensation of Mew’s thumb brushing over the shell of his ear as he presses against the curve of his scalp with a clear intention to bring their faces closer together. It seems like a reflex he can’t control, like an involuntary action born out of sheer need, and Gulf can do nothing but oblige, twisting his neck around to the point of pain while Mew continues to work his lips against his own. 

And boy, does he work them. Somewhat carefully at first, almost tentatively, like there’s still a good chance of him stepping away and putting an end to it all. But the moment his hand leaves Gulf’s hipbone to eventually settle over his lower abdomen as he slides his arm around him, it becomes pretty clear that all caution has been thrown to the wind, and thank God for that. Albeit not tight, Mew’s grip around Gulf feels overwhelming, almost suffocating, and it’s good, so good in fact that this time Gulf can’t resist letting out a whimper against Mew’s mouth, eager and thrilled. It only earns him a sigh from the other man, lips starting to glide against his own with more fervor now, more insistence, and there’s only so much Gulf can do not to dissolve into a trembling mess, palms clenched into fists at his sides and fingertips almost cutting into his skin from the amount of stimulation.

It’s the hint of tongue he feels sliding over his bottom lip that has him turning around in Mew’s grip. Lips still locked with Mew’s, he grabs onto his biceps, his shoulders, everywhere he can reach, leaving red marks wherever his fingertips press into the other’s skin while he welcomes the warm wetness of Mew’s tongue in his mouth. And maybe it’s exactly this action that spurs Mew on, the man pushing lightly against Gulf, just enough to have him backed up against the counter. Arms coming to rest against the wooden surface on both sides of Gulf, Mew cages him in and presses himself closer, so close Gulf cannot ignore the telltale pressure against his thigh. He feels victorious only until he realizes the strain in his own pants is quite a telltale sign, too.

It’s Mew who eventually breaks the kiss and pulls away just so, heavy breaths mingling in what little space is suddenly created between their lips.

“You taste like coffee,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue over his own upper lip, and even despite the dim lighting, Gulf can clearly see a playful glint in his eye. 

“A bit rich coming from someone who just had coffee himself. What do you think you taste like, strawberry and chocolate?”

“Cheeky,” Mew raises a corner of his mouth in a smirk. “And to think I was about to say I might come to like the taste of coffee if it’s always served like _that_.”

Mew doesn’t wait for Gulf to inquire what that’s supposed to mean, exactly. Instead, he smashes their mouths back together, and to Gulf, it’s explanation enough. 

If there’s anything Gulf learns about Mew in this particular moment, it’s that no kiss of his feels the same as the one before. Gulf figures he wasn’t quite prepared for the amount of tongue and teeth he’s presented with, but there’s absolutely nothing about it he would ever dare complain about. And when a sharp yank at his shirt results in it getting untucked, and a goosebumps-inducing, skin-on-skin caress of a palm along the length of his spine pulls a moan out of his mouth, Gulf hopes to God Mew gets addicted to his daily fix of coffee. 

Guiding him into his condo later that night, stumbling over his own feet in excitement while Mew continues to leave trails after trails of wet, open-mouthed kisses along the side of his throat, Gulf vaguely thinks that there’s a chance of him getting his wish granted indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Let's cry over MewGulf together! You can find me gushing over them 24/7 on twt @mirror_b_a_l_l. Come say hi!


End file.
